


Across the Waking Sea

by Androktones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cullenlingus, Cunnilingus, F/M, Family Drama, Meet the Family, Mystery, Ostwick, Pantry Sex, Post-Game, Pregnancy Kink, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-12 07:16:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4470191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Androktones/pseuds/Androktones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six months after the defeat of Corypheus, Inquisitor Evelyn Trevelyan and her lover, Commander Cullen Rutherford, sail to Ostwick to attend the wedding of the Inquisitor's sister. As always happens when family comes together, problems quickly develop. The most pressing problem, however, is determining who wants Evelyn Trevelyan dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Chapter One"

As the  _Lady’s Grace_ sailed ever closer to Ostwick’s harbor, Evelyn Trevelyan tried not to vomit. While the distress of her lover, Cullen, was an unwelcome but not unexpected result of seasickness, the cause of Evelyn’s roiling stomach was harder to determine. Picking her way across the salt-sprayed deck by twining her fingers in the rigging for balance, she managed to reach the chair where the commander sat, ashen-faced, sipping at a cup of tea which seemed to be doing nothing for his nausea.

“We’re almost to the docks,” she supplied, straining to be heard over the calling seagulls and crewmembers shouting as they scurried across the planks, readying the ship for port.

Cullen’s head lolled and a grimace painted itself over his handsome features as the ship turned hard for starboard.

“Thank the Maker. I  _hate_ the sea.”

“Now, you don’t hate the sea, you just hate travelling by it,” Evelyn replied, wrapping her shawl tighter around her frame. She loved these mercurial waters – the tang of the salty air, the wind whipping her hair into tangles, the way that the sun could so swiftly hide behind blooming storm clouds - at present, however, she found herself entirely too nervous to enjoy it.

Her family’s messenger had arrived at Skyhold nearly a month before, barging into the Inquisitor’s chambers with all the finesse of a rabid Druffalo. Even now, Evelyn’s cheeks turned pink at the memory; the poor young man had managed to interrupt some….well, Josephine once called them “mid-morning diplomatic negotiations to cement the alliance between Ostwick and Ferelden.” In practice, this meant that only Cullen’s quick reflexes and the delay posed by a flight of stairs kept the messenger from finding Evelyn flat on her back, with her dress rucked up and legs thrown over the shoulders of the Inquisition’s Commander…whose mouth was engaged in some “delicate diplomacy” of his own.

Sometimes the Maker was kind.

Instead, the courier had crested the stairs to see her placidly reading reports on her settee and Cullen in the washroom. If the young man noticed the sweat beading at her forehead or the flush on her throat, he did not say, though the rapidity with which the letter found her hand indicated either that he suspected or that Evelyn’s skill at masking irritation was slipping.

As the boy’s booted feet clattered down the stairs, Evelyn had broken the wax seal emblazoned with the Trevelyan motto, “Modest in Temper, Bold in Deed,” with the silver letter opener on the table.

“Who was it,” Cullen had called from the bathroom as Evelyn’s eyes scanned the page.

“A Trevelyan messenger, most likely instructed by my mother to give the letter only to me, considering the fear in his eyes,” she replied, standing and walking to the desk.

“Is all well?”

“Still reading, but she offers her congratulations on the defeat of Corypheus and my selection of a new Divine…ah, I  _see_.”

Only then had Cullen emerged from the washroom, one towel around his neck and the other slung low at his hips. Evelyn’s hand on the letter tightened; Maker, all she wanted to do was follow the droplet of water at his throat as it ran down his chest, around the divot of his belly button, down, down,  _down_ …

“Evelyn?”

“Yes? Oh, right, well,” judging from Cullen’s smug expression, he had possessed some idea of the bent of her thoughts, but she squeezed her legs together and began to read aloud.

“Your sister Tatiana has recently become engaged to the third son of Teryn Ricardis. You might remember him; he was present at Cosette’s wedding, and you attended their Wintersend ball the year before joining the Chantry. Dark hair, dark eyes, nice jawline. I think they will be well-matched; Carl is twenty months older than Tatiana, a fine horseman, quite kind. More than that, an alliance with the Teryn will serve our family well. The wedding will be this coming Summerday, as befits a family as renowned as Ricardis’.” Evelyn rolled her eyes.

“Your sisters will be attending with their husbands, and Cosette will be bringing Emilie and the new baby. We do so hope that you will attend as well. It would be lovely to have the family all together for Tatiana’s wedding, don’t you think, dear? Do come, and bring your Commander…”

She trailed off in silence for a moment, “Ah, and then Tatiana wrote at the bottom ‘if you don’t, I will never speak to you again. And she drew a heart-  _oh_.”

Cullen’s fingers had walked a delicate traipsing pattern over the nape of her neck and, inevitable as gravity, she had found herself in his arms, the letter discarded as they made the sometimes all-too-long journey to the bed.

And that, in short, was how they found themselves booking passage on a ship from Jader to Ostwick a fortnight ago. The _Lady’s Grace_ was well appointed, though undeniably a merchant schooner, intended more for the exchange of luxury goods than for a pleasure cruise undertaken by the Inquisitor and her seasick, ex-Templar lover. That said, the Waking Sea had been generally calm, a short squall or two notwithstanding, and Evelyn had found the voyage enjoyable. Certainly it was more diverting than the long, overland journey to the Conclave she had made with five other Chantry novitiates in a stuffy carriage, with Bran snoring and Joanna and Lenore bickering like two magpies. She  _much_ preferred the arcing roll of the ship, the rough calls of seabirds, the card games and fiddles in the inky blackness, with Cullen swinging her around in a Fereldan reel as the sailors whooped.

With her eyes cast out over the rippling surf, Evelyn jumped when Cullen’s broader frame enveloped her own. His fingers slotted so neatly between hers, curving over the railing as the outline of Ostwick slowly materialized on the horizon, the late morning sun glinting harsh and hard on the shining white buildings.

“Are you excited to be home?”

She could feel the rumble of his voice against her spine where his chest pressed near her ribs. His lips made a short sojourn to the curve of her neck and the dark blue shawl she wore fell away to allow him easier access.

“Excited? I don’t know. I am looking forward to seeing my family, but nervous is probably a better term for it. I haven’t seen them for three years…things are complicated. I don’t…” she sighed gently, “well, now is not the time.”

One of his strong arms slipped around her waist, and his lips murmured against the shell of her ear.

“Yes, it is. We’ll be  _there_  soon.”

As if his voice were a beacon, Evelyn’s eyes rose from their intertwined left hands to the city, nearer now, almost close enough to see the scurrying inkblot figures in the harbor.

“And when we’re there, we might not have much time to talk freely. It’s your sister’s wedding, after all, and your family will want to spend time with you.”

Evelyn sighed.

“I suppose you’re right, my love. Well, you already know that I am the youngest of four daughters, and that the Trevelyan family is quite large. Some are very powerful, some barely worth noting. My father is the younger son of a younger son, and our branch is neither particularly powerful nor wealthy compared to many nobles in the Free Marches.”

She squeezed Cullen’s broad fingers within her own.

“In any case, my parents could not afford to marry all of us off to people befitting our station, low among the nobles as it may have been. In Ostwick, the bride’s family provides the trousseau, the wedding dress, the celebratory meal…and since my mother is nothing if not wise at the marriage game, she only married her daughters to men at or above their status, which meant that each was quite expensive. Cosette’s wedding was planned five years in advance!”

Her head fell back against the solid weight of Cullen’s shoulder. “All this to say that my parents decided relatively early, when I was perhaps twelve, that they could not afford to marry me off. Every branch of the Trevelyans from here to Val Royeaux supports the Chantry, and has for years. I think there might even have been a Divine or two who came from the family. Anyway, it is quite normal for a younger son or daughter to enter into the Maker’s service. I did at fifteen, though not without anger.”

Cullen’s arm tightened around her waist.

“You didn’t want to go?”

“I wanted to stay at home with my friends and my sisters and my parents. I blamed my parents for not having the money for me to wed, my father for his family’s devotion to the Chantry which made my entry possible…I hated my mother for her plotting, my sisters for their futures which were unavailable to me, the nobles for making it so that I could not marry someone below my own status without bringing shame to my family, the Chantry for taking me as a novitiate despite my vocal protests…I was very, very angry.”

She turned within his arms, and his hand cupped the curve of her cheek. Cullen’s eyes were soft and tender. “Are you still angry at them?”

Evelyn blinked and turned into his warm, callused palm. “No. With time, I realized that my sisters had as little choice in the matter as I did, with Cossette engaged, Marie courting, and Tatiana just a year older than me. My father…well, as you will soon see, he’s rather eccentric, more interested in the garden and farming techniques than the machinations of the nobility. He thought the Chantry would give me  _more_  freedom, more choice…a choice in who I loved, who I wed, if I desired to at all. And my mother, too, did what she thought was best…”

His thumb swept over her cheekbone, catching up a few drops of stray saltwater from the ocean swells. Evelyn smiled.

“And besides, those choices led me to you. I can imagine no life other than the one I have now, with you.”

Their kiss was soft and slow and salty-sweet, her hands gripping his linen shirt and his arms around her waist as the _Lady’s Grace_ made its stately entrance into Ostwick’s bustling harbor.    

* * *

The relief on Cullen’s face as his booted feet met solid earth was matched in intensity only by Evelyn’s growing anxiety.

“Deitrich, my father’s steward, is meeting us here with the carriage.”

“Lady Trevelyan! Milady! Here!”

And there the grey-haired man was, standing on the footboard of the coach and waving, a wide smile on his ruddy face. Grabbing Cullen’s hand, Evelyn pulled him through the crowds and towards the older man, only to be swung up into a bone-crushing hug.

“Oh, Lady Evelyn, if you aren’t pretty as a picture!”

“Dietrich! How are you? How is Mathilde? Tristam?”

“Good, good, Tristam’s married now, living in Starkhaven. Has a little boy – me! A grandfather! Ah, but don’t let me prattle on, is this your man?”

Evelyn felt her cheeks flush at Dietrich’s appraising stare as he poked her in the side, grinning.

“Yes, ah, Dietrich this is-”

Cullen cut her off, sticking his hand out where Dietrich grasped it. “Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition,” her lover’s features twisted into a devilish smirk as he winked, “and her man.”

“Wonderful, wonderful,” Dietrich grinned, “the house has been all aflutter with the wedding and the family members arriving, but everyone’s looking forward to meeting you, ser, and to seeing our Evelyn again. Now, in the carriage, the both of you. I’ll get your luggage.”

The older man bustled off towards the docks, calling two porters to his side with the promise of coin, and Cullen opened the coach door. Sweeping a deep bow, he smiled.

“Milady.”

Evelyn sank into a deep curtsy in reply, though the effect was somewhat marred by her lack of skirts. A curtsy in trousers often just looked like one’s leg had gone numb. But she placed her fingertips lightly on Cullen’s palm and sighed overly-delicately, “milord,” as he helped her into the coach.

The carriage ride through Ostwick was uneventful. The blue sky, the faintest snatches of spices being unloaded from merchant schooners at the swiftly-retreating dock, the calls of vendors hawking their wares, all of these faded as Deitrich maneuvered the two bay chargers through the crowds and past the first of Ostwick’s two shining marble walls.

Luckily, the Trevelyan seal on the side of the carriage kept most people from sparing more than a passing glance to the coach. Evelyn was grateful for the light shawl she had packed and now wore over her hair; for all the messengers, alewives and fishmongers knew, she was yet another member of an entirely too large minor family come to see the wedding.

Though not so minor a family anymore, Evelyn thought as her fingertips drifted over the newly refurbished seats, done up in deep garnet Antivan damask.

“Your lady mother had the carriage redone when the betrothal was announced,” Deitrich called from his perch, voice rising above the clattering hooves on the cobblestones, “Many people are willing to perform services for the Inquisitor’s family, meserre. And the treasures you sent helped, too, of course.”

Cullen’s hand found hers and squeezed as Deitrich continued enumerating the myriad projects that had been completed on the Trevelyan estate: windowpanes replaced, the marble tub in her parents’ bathing chamber refinished, a fancy method of watering the courtyard garden involving subterranean pipes-

“Imported the schematics from Orzammar! They’re quite ingenious, the dwarves…it was your father’s pet project for the winter…”

The coachman’s voice slowly tapered off, and Cullen laced his fingers with hers.

“I hope Mother hasn’t promised someone favors we can’t deliver on,” Evelyn groused, fingertip tracing a leaping stag rendered in golden thread as the carriage rumbled past the second ring of walls and into the city center.

“She might have,” Cullen murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple through the curtain of her hair, “but we’re here for your sister’s marriage, not for politics.”

“Oh Cullen,” she sighed dramatically, though her lips curved in a smile, “when will you learn? Marriages  _are_ politics.”

He tucked a stray auburn lock behind her ear, and his eyes were soft. “Not all of them.”

Evelyn’s heart lurched at the tenderness writ across his features and she murmured, “No, I suppose not all.”

Freeing her hand from his she curved her fingers around the back of his skull and brought his perfect, scarred lips to hers. Cullen’s mouth was warm, and his hands found her waist despite the lurching of the carriage, and she thought,  _thank the Maker he is recovered from his seasickness, surely we will find time to-_

Dietrich coughed.

“Begging your pardon, milady, ser, but we’re approaching the estate and well…” even though the steward was turned away from them, Evelyn could see the flush spreading below his gray hair and down his neck, and she tamped down a groan of frustration while placing her hands back demurely in her lap.

“Yes, Dietrich, thank you.”

Cullen’s eyes crinkled in mirth.

“More scared of your mother than of Corypheus?”

She rolled her eyes as the carriage continued its journey.

“Soon you will be, too.”

* * *

The estate looked much the same as when Evelyn had left it, white stone glinting in the warm sun, the tops of the trees in the courtyard just peeking above the roofline. Deitrich pulled the reins and he carriage rolled to a stuttering stop, the horses nickering softly as their bits pulled taut against their lips. Cullen held out a hand to help Evelyn descend.

“You know I’ve been getting in and out of carriages for five and twenty years, don’t you, my love?”

He kissed her knuckles, “true, but it has only been for a few that I have had the privilege of helping.”

“Lady Evelyn!”

Charging from the open doorway to the home was a tall and somewhat dour woman, with her greying hair bound in a tight bun.

Cullen stilled at Evelyn’s side. “Your mother?”

“No,” she whispered, “her lady, Jean.”

“Don’t you worry,” said Dietrich from beside the carriage, “I’ll get your bags inside and to your rooms.”

“Thank you, Dietrich. Wait, room **s**? Plural?”

“Well of course,” said Jean, ushering them up the stairs like a fussing hen, “it wouldn’t do for you to  _share_ , now would it? The town is already all aquiver, and then to have you… _cohabiting_.”

She whispered the last word like someone might whisper “regicide,” or “Blight,” as she pushed the couple through the vestibule, past the entrance to the receiving parlor, past the hallway to the kitchens, and Evelyn twisted around, glancing back, “Jean, where are we-”

“Your mother thought you might want to freshen up, of course, after your long journey. The commander will be staying in the guest wing-”

“Wait? What! Where is-”

The older woman continued unperturbed. “And you, Lady Evelyn, will be staying in your old bedroom. I’ve already had a bath drawn, and Dietrich will leave your trunks there. Peter!”

A young boy appeared as if by magic, though his winded breath let Evelyn know that Jean’s sudden summonings were of a more practical nature.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Please escort Commander Rutherford to his room in the guest wing.”

Evelyn dug her heels into the parquet floor. “Now, wait just a moment, I-”

Cullen smiled and brushed the callused pad of his thumb over her cheek. “It’s fine. I’ll see you as soon as we’ve cleaned up.”

Jean patted his shoulder like a proud mother. “Quite sensible. Now, off you go.”

Peter bowed stiffly and led Cullen down a hallway branching off to the left, and Jean’s hand closed on Evelyn’s elbow like a vice.

“Lady Evelyn, your bathwater won’t stay warm forever.”

Much like the estate itself, Evelyn’s bedroom had not changed much. The thick Orlesian rug was the same, blemished by a juice stain to the left of the doorway, and her stuffed dragon still kept guard on the bureau. At present, a copper tub sat in the middle of the room, steam twining up from the bathwater which a young woman was currently pouring.

“Iris,” snapped Jean, and the girl’s bucket clattered to the floor as she hastily stood, “this is Lady Evelyn, the Inquisitor.”

Iris’s eyes, cornflower blue, widened as she swept a curtsy, managing to kick the empty bucket with a clang.

“Milady! I, um, well, I’ve been- I mean, it’s a pleasure to, um-”

Evelyn smiled, unwrapping the shawl from around her shoulders and hanging it on the hook next to the door. “Hello, Iris. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for the bath.”

Iris’s cheeks turned even pinker, and Jean hissed, “Say ‘thank you’” from her place beside the Inquisitor.

“Thank you.”

Evelyn turned, placing her small satchel on the hook next to her shawl. “That will be all, Jean. Where should Cullen and I meet my parents?”

“I think they are in the parlor. Iris will take you there when you are ready. Welcome home, Lady Evelyn.”

Jean shut the door firmly behind her, and Evelyn sighed.

“Once, when Tatiana and I were small, Jean found us playing with my mother’s rouge. We begged her not to tattle on us, but of course she did. We weren’t allowed dessert for a month.”

“She’s got a stick bigger than a broadsword up her arse, that one,” said Iris, who then clapped her hands hard over her mouth, eyes as wide as dinner plates. She gulped. “…begging your pardon, milady.”

The Inquisitor grinned, shucking her boots. “Bigger than that, I think. Maybe a mage’s staff.”

* * *

Newly bathed, with her dark auburn hair curling damply down the slope of her back, Evelyn walked towards the parlor, the skirts of her dress swirling around her feet as she rounded a corner, almost running full-tilt into Cullen. His broad hand shot out to steady her, curling around her waist and, gaze meeting, his golden eyes widened.

“You look lovely,” he murmured, gaze flickering over the flush on her cheeks, the pink tint that Iris had skillfully applied to Evelyn’s lips.

She grinned, twining a burnished golden curl around a fingertip. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Commander. The casual look suits you,” she replied, releasing the lock of hair held between her fingers and letting her hand slide down the broad plane of his chest. His eyes were heated and his lips parted, just a hint of his need in the way his arm pressed her closer to the hard lines of his body.

“Cullen, I-” but then his lips were on hers, hands smoothing the fabric of her dress as she sagged against him, her own hands gripping his shoulders.

“Are you recovered from your seasickness?” she asked between feverish kisses.

“Yes,  _entirely_ ,” he replied, and she shuddered.

“Well then, we will have to-”

“Stop snogging in the hallway and come say hello to your family?” said a voice, light with laughter. Cullen leapt away as if Evelyn’s skin were a brand, and his cheeks were burning red

“So, Evie, _this_  is your commander? Lucky girl!” exclaimed the young woman leaning up against the windowsill, her dark blonde hair braided and looped over her head and a bright smile on her full lips.

Evelyn grinned. “Indeed, I am. Cullen, this is my sister, Tatiana.”  

 

* * *

 

Comments, kudos, constructive criticism always welcome. <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Across the Waking Sea**

"Chapter Two"

Tatiana bounded into the parlor, her red taffeta skirts rustling as she swept through the doorway, calling, “Mama, Papa! They’re here, and he’s _handsome_!”

Evelyn smiled, and took Cullen’s broad hand within her own.

“For once, I am entirely inclined to agree with her. Shall we?”

The corner of Cullen’s lips rose, and he kissed her knuckles.

“After you, Lady Trevelyan.”

The room was much the same as Evelyn remembered it: two overstuffed if slightly shabby couches taking up the lion’s share of the space, three high windows looking out towards the Vimmark Mountains to the north, and her father in a chair nearby, nose in a book.

“Evelyn!”

And there was her mother, hands cupping Evelyn’s cheeks and her mother’s eyes, which had once been so bright blue, had now gone slightly grey with age, fluttering over her face.

“Dear girl, I’m _so_ glad you were able to come. Was the journey difficult? Have you been eating enough? You’re so thin! Oh, you _must_ meet Ricardis, and I’ve heard the Prince of Starkhaven is unmarried- oh, and-”

“Mother. Let her _breathe_ ,” came a calmer voice and Evelyn’s eldest sister approached, a babe in her arms and a little girl trailing behind.

“Cosette, it is wonderful to see you,” Evelyn said, kissing her cheek before stooping down to make eye contact with the blonde-haired child peeking out from behind sky blue silks of her mother’s skirts, “and my, how you’ve grown, Emilie. Your hair is almost as golden as your mother’s, now!”

Cosette laid a hand atop her daughter’s head, “Emilie, what do you say?”

The child spoke around the thumb she kept lodged firmly in her mouth. “Thank you, Aunt Evelyn.”

Emilie looked up and, finding her mother engaged with the baby, whispered dramatically, “Mama says you have a hole in your hand that shoots green fireworks.”

“Emilie!”

Evelyn laughed.

“No, dear. I did once, but it is gone now. See?” She waggled her fingers, and Emilie nodded, apparently satisfied, before running across the room to her father.

“Papa! Her hand isn’t funny! It’s just like mine!”

 Evelyn’s father approached, book tucked under his arm.

“Hello, little one,” and he smiled, “though not so little anymore. Give this old man a hug.”

Evelyn did, and her father still smelled as she remembered, of sunshine and book parchment and the gardens, and she tried not to feel sad at how much older he seemed to have grown, at how much sharper the knobs of his spine felt beneath her hands.

“Hello, Papa.”

And Tatiana coughed, holding Emilie on her hip.

“Enough of that, Evie! Are you going to introduce us to your dashing companion?”

Evelyn’s cheeks flared with heat, and she stepped out of her father’s embrace to clasp Cullen’s hand again. Thankfully he didn’t seem _too_ overwhelmed at present, and for that, she was extraordinarily grateful.

“Everyone, this is Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, the leader of the Inquisition’s armies. Cullen, this is my father, Bann Erich Trevelyan, my mother, Lady Lisbeth Trevelyan, my sister, Cosette, her husband, Ser Martin of Starkhaven, Emilie and Antony, their children, and of course, my sister, Tatiana.”

Cullen swept a bow and murmured, “A pleasure to meet you all. Evelyn has told me so much about you.”

Tatiana rolled her eyes. “Evelyn, he’s hardly _just_ the Commander of the Inquisition’s Armies. Let’s not forget that a few minutes ago in the hallway you were-”

“Discussing how excited we were to be here?” said Cullen, meeting Evelyn’s eyes, “yes. Evelyn has been able to talk of little else for weeks.”

She squeezed his hand in gratitude before asking “where is Marie? Rolf?”

Evelyn’s mother tutted softly. “She’s not feeling well, so she is resting at present, but she will be joining us for tea. Rolf had to stay in Kirkwall, unfortunately. The mages are making a fuss, and the Chantry is still rebuilding. Couldn’t get away, I suppose,” she said, though she sighed heavily, and Evelyn noted that an odd expression flickered across Cosette’s face before she smoothed it away, leaving her lovely features placid as an undisturbed pond.

Turning back to Cullen, Evelyn looped her arm through his and murmured, “Marie’s husband is a Templar in Kirkwall, but he has only been there for a year or so.”

Seeing her family’s inquisitive expressions, Cullen supplied, “I was once a Templar. Immediately after the Kirkwall Rebellion I had to take over from Knight-Commander Meredith, and I had too many soldiers to be as closely acquainted with them as I would prefer. It is possible that we might have met, but unfortunately I can’t be sure.”

“No matter,” said Evelyn’s mother, taking baby Antony from Cosette’s arms, “he might arrive in time for the wedding on Summersday. So, tell me, Commander Rutherford-”

Jean rapped on the doorframe, sticking her head into the room without ceremony.

“Ser, Milady, Teryn Ricardis and his son are pulling up to the gate.” Her lips pursed in displeasure. “Half an hour early.”

Lady Trevelyan said, “oh wonderful,” at the same time that Tatiana squealed, “Carl is here?!” and the baby started crying. And then Tatiana and Evelyn’s mother were rushing out the door in a flurry of silk and taffeta, and Emilie was running behind them, shouting, “I want to see the Teryn! Mama says he has a castle!”

Cosette linked an arm with her husband and they proceeded out in a stately fashion, leaving Cullen, Evelyn and her father standing alone in the parlor. The Inquisitor’s lover looked more than slightly shell shocked, and Bann Trevelyan smiled beatifically.

“The trappings of nobility, my dear boy…never much cared for it, myself.”

He set his worn book down on the coffee table and straightened, tucking Evelyn’s hand in the crook of his elbow.

“Now, surely you won’t begrudge an old man like myself a lovely lady to escort him to tea?”

“Of course not, Bann Trevelyan.”

“Psh. Erich will do just fine, son, though not when my wife, Lisbeth’s about. Let’s go; I think Cook made lemon cookies!”

* * *

 

By the time Cullen, Evelyn and her father entered the study, Jean was already passing around tea cups for a second round, and Emilie had found a picture book that Marie, paler than Evelyn remembered, was reading to her. The conversation flowered and faded in its usual way for perhaps half an hour, after introductions to the Teryn and his son, Carl, were out of the way, and Evelyn found some of her anxiety regarding Tatiana’s marriage soothed. She and Carl were no great love story, perhaps, but they seemed matched well enough, and with time, even love could grow, or at least healthy admiration…or so it seemed to go among the nobility much of the time.

 “So what is it that your family does, Commander Rutherford?” Cosette’s voice was chocolate smooth, and only the lift of one impeccably arched eyebrow betrayed her true curiosity as she lifted her full teacup to her mouth.

Cullen swallowed and set down his glass. “My father was a farmer, milady, but he perished in the Blight. My eldest sister still lives on our family farm.”

Tatiana looked ready to speak, but Evelyn shot her a glare fit to curdle milk, and the woman’s painted lips snapped shut. At that moment, Evelyn’s father, who had almost immediately fallen asleep after eating a half dozen cookies, snorted awake in his armchair. “What’s this? A _farmer_ , you say? Fascinating! Now, lad, tell me-”

“Oh, dear, I’m sure we can find better things to discuss than _farming_ ,” Evelyn’s mother cut in, shooting an apologetic look to Teryn Ricardis, who didn’t seem to be paying the slightest bit of attention, absorbed instead with the chess match that he and Cosette’s husband, Martin, were playing under the watch of Tatiana’s fiancé. Her mother went on, “let us discuss the-”

Her father stood. “Nonsense, Lisbeth, what is more _interesting_ , more _vital_ than the production of the food we eat? The Free Marches are the breadbasket of all Thedas, after all! You see, Cullen, I myself am quite an avid gardener, though mostly of flowers and fruit trees. Why, just this past winter I had subterranean irrigation added to the courtyard. _Most_ complicated, indeed. Now let me show you this incredible book on vine grafting I bought in Orlais…”

“Papa-”Evelyn made to stand, but in doing so jostled her nephew, sleeping in her arms, and Antony squalled, pink fist coming loose from his blanket and waving angrily. Stricken, she sat down again, tucking his soft, tiny hand back beneath the cloth and whispering “shhh” in his ear. Cullen’s expression was beautifully tender when he met her eyes.

“Now, now, Evelyn,” her father said, winking, “don’t you worry. I won’t monopolize too much of your Commander’s time.”

Taking Cullen’s elbow, her father walked them both to the bookcase at the edge of the room, his other hand gesticulating wildly as he described with great intensity the trouble he was having keeping his Fereldan climbing roses alive.

“The climate here is much hotter than in Ferelden, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. But, ah! Better we _see_ the roses, yes? The book will keep. Come, come, I will show you the courtyard!”

Cullen’s tormented look back over his shoulder was matched only by the intensely apologetic one that Evelyn was sure she wore, though she herself would rather be discussing farming than the options for the wedding luncheon.

“A _farmer_ , Evelyn,” her mother sighed, passing Tatiana the plate of fancy Orlesian pastries, “with the wealth of the Inquisition we could find you-”

“One more word, Mother, and I am leaving,” Evelyn hissed, grateful for once that her mother was close enough for her to reply without drawing the attention of the others, “Cullen is the Commander of the Inquisition’s Army, not a farmer, and even if he _were_ , it would be no business of yours. If you desire my presence at this wedding which, may I remind you, I helped bankroll through the funds acquired through the Inquisition, you will stop this at once. You gave up any right you had to decide on my marriage when you gave me to the Chantry.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. “Dear, I-”

“No!”

That had been louder than she intended, and her mother’s teacup rattled against its china saucer. Cosette and Tatiana were listening now. Evelyn picked up her own cup.

“If you wish to discuss it further, Mother, we will do so privately. Now, Tatiana, you are serving a marzipan cake at the wedding?”

“Antivan Vanilla,” her sister said, taking up the cue with the ease of many an etiquette lesson, “it’s Carl’s favorite. Though we will also have fresh fruit and plenty of smaller pastries. Remind me, Cosette, what did you have at your wedding?”

And with all the smooth precision of clockwork, the conversation shifted onto the merits of various types of dessert. Evelyn couldn’t bring herself to meet her mother’s eyes.  

So after handing off Antony, who had begun mouthing at her neck in search of food, she went in search of Cullen. He wasn’t in the courtyard, so she headed for the kitchens; her father’s enthusiasm might have led them to the small plot of herbs on the side of the house. Walking through, the cook waved a wooden spoon in her direction by way of greeting, calling, “welcome back, Lady Evelyn,” before she went back to stirring some almost black concoction in a large bowl.

“The men are out there, probably tromping all over my seasonings,” she groused, gesturing out to the garden with a tilt of her head before holding out her utensil, “here, taste.”

Evelyn swept a fingertip through the batter and popped it into her mouth, tongue curling in pleasure. “It’s delicious! What is it?”

“Tevinter chocolate torte. The Teryn’s partial to it, so your mother’s ordered the ingredients up special. Now, go fetch your father and your man before I’ll be left without a single leaf of elfroot.”

Cullen and Evelyn’s father were bent over some tiny, withered plant in the dirt, and her father had the brown leaves cupped in his wizened hands. The strains of their conversation drifted across the narrow strip of soil as Evelyn picked her way through the orderly rows of green shoots.

“…perhaps planted too early…”

“…can’t keep the weevils off…”

Leaning on a fence post, she whistled, high and clear, calling, “Papa, now if I recall, you said you _weren’t_ going to monopolize too much of Cullen’s time!”

“Ah! Evelyn, there you are! Did you know that some Ferelden farmers keep _toads_ in their gardens to eat pests? _Fascinating_! Look at you, dear, bringing someone with practical knowledge to our home; no wonder your mother’s all up in a tizzy!”

Cullen’s cheeks flushed, and Evelyn slipped her arm around his waist, murmuring, “Please tell me he hasn’t bored you half to death,” her eyes landing affectionately on her father pottering about, inspecting the Andraste’s Grace.

“Of course not, my love. Is tea over?”

Sighing, Evelyn rested her head against his shoulder, “no, I came looking for you. Didn’t want you dying of boredom, or me committing matricide on my first day back.”

He chuckled.

“That bad?”

“If my mother mentions marrying me off to the Prince of Starkhaven one more time, I might stab her with a butter knife.”

“Who’s stabbing who now?” Her father asked from where he crouched in the dirt, chewing thoughtfully on a sprig Dawn Lotus.

“Nothing, Papa. Shall we go back inside?”

“You go ahead, dear. I’m going to weed these. Thank you for your advice on the garden, Cullen.”

“Of course, Erich.”

“And remember to have your sister send me some seeds!”

As Evelyn and Cullen re-entered the house and walked past the still furiously stirring cook, she giggled and whispered, “You know he’s going to go buy Ferelden toads, and my mother will have a fit.”

“She may, but your father will have the best herb garden in all of Ostwick,” he replied, fingers twining between her own. 

“So,” he mused as they reached the intersection of the kitchen entrance and a hallway, “which way back to tea?”

An idea sparked quick as candleflame, and Evelyn pulled him back in the opposite direction, towards the pantry.

“Evelyn, what are you-”

“Shh,” she hissed, easing the door open and pushing him into the dark, narrow space which smelled of dried herbs and canvas bags full of dried footstuffs.

Evelyn followed him in and spun them, hard, pressing Cullen up against the door. Her lips slanted over his stubbled jaw in the dark, kissing a line to the corner, licking into the heat of his mouth. Quickly she slipped a hand beneath the seam of his shirt, scraping her blunted fingernails up the taut expanse of his stomach, around the curving ridges his ribs. Despite his surprise, Cullen’s hands quickly found and cupped her breasts through the light silk of her dress as she ground herself against his hip, seeking friction and relief for the ache building between her thighs.

“Love,” he gasped when she released his mouth to press her lips against his thundering pulse, to scrape her teeth over the warm thump of his heartbeat, “we shouldn’t, we’re-”

“In a pantry, I know,” she murmured, arcing her spine to drive her breasts further into his hands, “but according to Iris, Jean’s apparently been ordered to serve as our chaperone, and it’s been three weeks since we did more than kiss. I might combust if I don’t get you in my mouth, right now.”

“Maker’s breath, woman,” he shuddered, nails scraping against the rough wood of the door panel as Evelyn’s fingers went to his belt, undoing the buckle with lightning fast precision.

“I need you,” she moaned breathily into his ear, kissing the hollow of his throat as her hands pushed his trousers and smalls down to his knees. Cullen was already hard and hot as she wrapped a hand around his length, sliding her digits down until they met his honey dark hair. His breath was labored as she slid her fingers from base to the tip, thumb flicking over the bead of pearly liquid there, and Cullen shuddered, golden head falling against her shoulder as he panted hot, moist streams into the hollow of her neck.

Evelyn gathered up her skirts in one hand and sank to her knees, careful to keep the fabric pooled around her, rather than between her body and the floor where it would get suspiciously dirty.

“I need you, Cullen,” she repeated, one hand curling around his hipbone, fingers splayed across his burning skin. She could only barely make out the shape of him in the dark, a thin blade of light filtering under the door as she let her breath ghost over his cock. He hissed lowly between his teeth, a hand shooting out to grip a shelf full of coffee beans and tea leaves.

And her mouth was on his length, trailing wet kisses from the base of his cock down his heavy, hot length until her lips wrapped around the tip, tongue dipping into the slit at the head to catch up the slickness there. Evelyn twirled her tongue around his thick crown, lips parting to allow him further into her heat as she sank, her fingers wrapping around the broad base of his need. Withdrawing, her hand followed behind, moving slickly but feather-light over his heated skin until her lips only just pressed against his tip.

Cullen’s voice was strained. “Take mercy, my love.”

She did, taking him far enough into her mouth that the broad crown of his cock pressed against her throat, and she hummed, teasing, as the fingers of Cullen’s left hand curled tightly in her hair. In the dark she couldn’t see his expression, but she could hear his gasping breath as she bobbed, the hand at his hip pushing him even further into her waiting mouth. She kept going, repeating the motion as his voice broke on the sounds of her name.

Evelyn’s whole body throbbed with hot desire and tightly coiled need as his length swelled even further between her lips, fingers pulling at her unbound hair almost to the point of pain and then he hissed, “Love, I’m-”

And he was coming, gulping down lungfuls of air as Evelyn’s mouth was flooded with the faintly bitter taste of his seed spurting hard from his length. Swallowing greedily, she sank as far down onto him as she could, until her nose just barely touched the curls at the base.

Slowly withdrawing, Evelyn licked him clean as she leaned back, pressing a kiss to the tip of his rapidly-softening cock as his fingers in her auburn hair loosened, tracing the curve of her cheekbone before cupping her chin. As she tucked him back within his trousers and fastened his belt, Cullen’s lips worked lazily against her throat, tongue darting out to taste her skin.

“You’ll have to let me return to favor,” he murmured, fingertips darting below the low neckline of her gown to trace an aching, stiff peak.

“Mmm,” Evelyn hummed low in her throat, ready to say “Maker take the dinner” and let Cullen fuck her in the pantry, bent over a crate of dried beans from Antiva, but suddenly her ear caught two voices approaching, growing louder, and she stilled, pressing her fingers against Cullen’s lips to silence him.

“…Ferelden…very handsome…where they’ve gotten off to…”

“Cosette,” she whispered against his throat.

“She seems very happy…clearly adores her…need to find them soon…Jean will throw a tantrum…” came the lower voice, and Evelyn murmured “Marie,” as the conversation grew fainter, her sisters’ footfalls fading as they continued towards to the herb garden.

“Well,” she murmured as Cullen withdrew his hand from her breast, “I suppose that means we should get out of here before Cook comes looking for some ingredient or other for tonight’s dinner.”

“There are other, nearer morsels I’d prefer to eat,” he whispered, and she could feel his lips curve in a smile against her fingertips.

“Don’t tempt me, Rutherford. I’ll leave first and make sure the coast is clear. If I knock against the door once, wait a moment and exit.”

He kissed her digits where they pressed against his lips, and could feel the very faintest hint of his tongue against the ridges and valleys of her fingerprints.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” 

She sighed, delicately wiping a bit of his seed from the corner of her lips and sucking the finger clean, which made Cullen’s breathing hitch. Smoothing her skirts, Evelyn pecked his cheek, reaching behind him to grab the door handle and whispering, “Now I promised I’d go into town for a bit with Marie, and then…dinner with the family and the Teryn. Kill me now.”

He chuckled lowly, shifting further into the shadows of the pantry as she prepared to leave.

“Not a chance.”

* * *

 

 **“** So, Cullen is…” Marie began, from her seat beside Evelyn in the carriage approaching Ostwick’s market district.

“ _Gorgeous_ ,” breathed Tatiana, giggling, “I mean, Carl is fine and good, and his father is the Teryn, but Cullen’s _hands_!”

“I was going to say ‘kind’,” murmured Marie, turning towards Tatiana, “he seems very _kind_.”

“He is. He is a very compassionate and capable man, a good commander, a kind brother…”

“A good kisser?” supplied Tatiana, squealing as Evelyn kicked her in the ankle.

“Mother said you weren’t feeling well,” Evelyn said, patting Marie’s thin hand with her own where it lay between them on the damask cushion, “are you well?”

Marie’s finely-shaped brows furrowed and she sighed, “oh, you know how Mother worries. I am just feeling a bit tired. Nothing too serious.”

“And Rolf?  He couldn’t get away?”

“He’s very busy helping in the rebuilding of the Kirkwall Chantry, and the new Viscount’s hold on power there is tenuous at best, even after your commander spent significant time recruiting new Templars and rebuilding. I suppose Rolf didn’t feel comfortable leaving for a full week. He should be here for the wedding, however.”

Marie sighed, pulling her hand from beneath Evelyn’s palm, “Rolf works too hard. Doesn’t come home until after dark some nights…he asked me to pick up a sword he had repaired here; apparently the blacksmith he liked left Kirkwall after the rebellion and moved here, on the same street as the Orlesian confectioner. Ah, here we are…”

The carriage shuddered to a halt and Tatiana was already out and running, skirts held high as she dodged puddles and a pile of horse droppings, chasing the syrupy sweet scent of treacle floating on the air.

“I’ll meet you back at the carriage,” she called over her shoulder, “I’m going to go buy some candies!”

Evelyn grinned. “Some things never change.”

“No, I suppose not,” Marie replied, stepping gingerly onto the cobblestones, “she’s always had an obsession with sweets.”

“And Orlesians! Remember, she wanted to move to Val Royeaux when she was nine?”

“You wanted to go with her, if I recall correctly. Father found you both hiding in a shipping crate. I think Mama was secretly proud.”

As they walked, Evelyn was able to get a better look at her middle sister. Marie’s hair, just a shade or two darker than her own, a gift from their father’s side, was coiled in braids at the base of her neck, making a stark contrast against her pale skin. Even now Evelyn could see the faintest hints of blue-green veins beneath the porcelain expanse of her neck. She seemed thinner.

“Do you like Kirkwall?” she asked, trailing a hand along the stones, following the iron tang of the smithy’s shop on the air.

“It is…alright. The city is strange, hard. The signs of the rebellion remain everywhere; many people left and still have not returned. Rolf feels very strongly about it.”

Evelyn rapped her knuckles against the wooden door embossed with an anvil.

“‘It’?”

 “The city. He grew up there, you know, before being stationed in the Chantry at Wildervale. I think he misses Kirkwall as it used to be. He spends a lot of time walking the city, seeing the damage. It must be difficult.”

Evelyn knocked again and replied, “Cullen doesn’t talk about it very much.”

The wooden door to the smithy swung inwards and an old man peered out, one good eye winking white in the sooty darkness, “yes?”

“Good evening, ser. I am Rolf Harkness’s wife, Marie Harkness, formerly Trevelyan. I am supposed to pick up his sword?”

The old man grinned toothlessly, “yes, yes, come on in, got it in back” and it was only then that Evelyn heard the scraping of stone against stone, and as a pebble swished past her feet to bounce against the street, she screamed, “ _move_ ,” pushing Marie into the dark interior of the shop, her own body falling hard in a sprawl of limbs atop of her sister and the smithy.

And Marie gasped as a massive marble cornice stone shattered hard, flying apart against the paving, where only a moment before, she and Evelyn had stood.    

 

* * *

Kudos, reviews, constructive criticism always welcome! 

 


	3. Chapter Three

"Chapter Three"

Tossing and turning in her bed, Evelyn sighed heavily. Her shoulder was sore from the packed earth floor of the blacksmith’s, and she was sure a bruise would bloom on her knee where it had knocked into the doorframe as she rolled herself over Marie. “Knew I needed to repair that stone…shouldn’t have gone with the cheapest offer,” the smith had muttered, crawling out from beneath both Trevelyan sisters and disappearing into the back to fetch the sword.

Panting, Marie had gaped at the massive stone, shattered now, but each piece easily weighed twenty pounds of more. An accident, Evelyn thought, but one that was too close for comfort. They had agreed not to mention it to their mother; she was nervous enough already with Tatiana’s upcoming nuptials.

Fortunately, dinner hadn’t been quite the ordeal Evelyn had anticipated, as her mother seated Cullen to Evelyn’s right, perhaps in apology for her comments at tea. While her lover’s proximity meant that the conversation was more pleasant than expected, with Cullen, Evelyn and Marie discussing Chantry politics, theology, and the Inquisition, the closeness of Cullen’s body, his sweet but spicy cologne, and his hand creeping from her knee up and between her thighs, with teasingly light touches…well, he had driven her to distraction. She managed to keep herself in check, as Emilie provided a welcome distraction, wanting a story read to her in between dessert and coffee, and she held Antony for a while to give Cossette a brief respite.  Unfortunately, as soon as Evelyn’s father and the Teryn signaled the end of the meal by toasting to the engagement of their children and retiring to the library for brandy, Jean appeared to escort Evelyn and Tatiana back to their rooms. She’d managed only a quick kiss to the corner of Cullen’s mouth before being swept out of the hall.

She was five-and-twenty, for the Maker’s sake, and Cullen, thirty, and they were kept on separate sides of the house like cunt-struck teenagers! She was unwed, yes, but she had a castle under her command, had killed a magister-turned-God! And almost every night in the six months’ since Corypheus’ death, Evelyn had shared a bed with Cullen, with all the intimacies that such arrangements entailed. And those intimacies were frequent, too, or had been until they had boarded the ship to Ostwick and Cullen’s seasickness had set in. She was _burning_ and extremely irritated about it. The oh-so-brief meeting in the pantry had only served to make her even more aware of just how long it had been since she had found relief. Her skin felt a size too small and itchy as wet wool. Rolling onto her side, she groaned despite herself. “Void take me…”

“Is everything alright, milady?” Iris’s voice was thick with sleep even as her body moved, the blankets rustling as she stood to light one of the brass lamps on the nightstand. An idea sparked in Evelyn’s mind, quick as the flame coaxed beneath Iris’ hand.

“Switch clothes with me,” Evelyn whispered, squinting at the sudden brightness as the wick flared to life. She kept her voice low, mindful of her sisters’ rooms adjoining her own.

“What? Why? Your mother-”

“Is asleep, and soundly, if her empty glasses at dinner were any indication!” Evelyn snapped, throwing the duvet off of her legs and standing, her fingers already working at the lavender ribbons holding up her nightgown, “but I can’t sleep, because Mama has had Jean following me like a bloody Mabari whenever I’m with Cullen, and I am _frustrated_. Just a half hour, please? We’re the same height, similar weight, no one will know. I will give you three sovereigns if-”

“If I let you go traipsing around in the dark to your man’s room, with the two of you yet unmarried?” Iris murmured, though her own fingers were already at the simple white buttons at her throat. She smiled. “I don’t need the sovereigns. I saw him, too. If I had a one so fine after my arse” her cheeks flushed scarlet, “begging your pardon, messere, but well, I’d be hard pressed to sleep alone, too. Only man after me is Wat, the baker’s boy, and he’s always got flour in his hair.”

And then Iris pulled her shift up over her head and tossed it to Evelyn, who quickly slipped it on, fastening one of the buttons haphazardly at her throat. Giving Iris her own gown, Evelyn couldn’t help but smile at the maid’s sigh of rapture as the silk fluttered against her bare legs.

“Now get in the bed,” Evelyn said, pulling back the downy cover.

But Iris was across the room, digging through one of the mahogany chests.

“We’ll need bonnets, messere,” she whispered, straightening and proffering one of the linen caps to Evelyn.

“Why?”

She could have sworn that Iris rolled her eyes. “Well, you had dark hair when your chaperone dropped you off at your chamber door this evening, and if your mother comes by to make sure you are behaving yourself, she’ll wonder why a blonde woman’s head is on the pillow. The guards are used to me passing through the hall at night, and with a bonnet you’re less likely to get caught. Here, the keys to the hall and guest wing.”

“Ah…yes. Thank you,” Evelyn murmured as Iris began tucking her own corn-silk hair up under the white lace cap. Tying the ribbon beneath her chin, she slipped beneath the feather comforter and giggled softly.

“Pardon me saying so, messerre, but you might not be getting this bed back.”

Evelyn laughed. “Iris, you can have it. I’ll buy you ten goose down duvets for this, and the finest silk sheets in all of Orlais. _Thank you_.”

In response, Iris blew out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

“Remember,” she whispered, “half an hour. And no more excursions to the pantry. Cook saw you leaving yesterday, hair a mess, skirt rumpled, and your man following just after. Word travels fast among us serving-folk.”

“Maybe we were checking on the ingredients for dinner?”

“Ingredients for infants, more like,” Evelyn heard Iris mutter as the lock of the door clicked shut.

 As she stole across the courtyard, Evelyn paused briefly at the colonnade to admire the way the moonlight silvered the white bark on the trees and turned the lemons and pomegranates into shining globes of white gold. The only noise in the summer night was the splashing of the fountain at the center, the far away chantry bells ringing the hour. With the manor still, the shifting of the tumblers in the lock to the hall sounded loud as a thunderclap. But no one peered out from the windows ringing the courtyard and no voice disrupted the stillness.

Easing the heavy door open just enough to slip through, Evelyn waited for a moment, veiled in the shadows, to see if the pair of guards sitting at the table would move. But they stayed where they were, slumped over their goblets. Too much wine, most likely, and it _was_ late, the tapers burnt more than halfway down, candle wax pooling on the floor. Suddenly, seized by inspiration and cloaked by darkness, she reached underneath the hem of her gown and dragged her smallclothes down the length of her legs. Putting it in one of the pockets of Iris’s gown, she grinned; she and Cullen had limited time, did they not?

Evelyn darted across the polished marble floor, keeping to the edges of the room; finally she fitted one of the many brass keys on the keyring into the lock. In the guest wing now, she inclined her head quickly to one of the Teryn’s guards where he sat beside the door closest to the hall. Too much drink, she supposed; in his old age Ricardis had become ever likelier to imbibe too many Antivan spirits, and her father’s brandy was renowned throughout the city. Her mother must be ecstatic; the Teryn sleeping under _her_ roof, and one of his sons marrying Tatiana. Never let it be said that Lisbeth Trevelyan did not succeed in her aspirations for social climbing.

A thin slice of candlelight peeped beneath the door furthest from the hall; her mother _would_ put Cullen as far away from the others as possible. Maker help her, Evelyn loved the woman, but she could be such a _pain_.

She rapped her knuckles against the wood once, twice, and a third time.

“Yes? Who is it?” Cullen’s voice sounded adorably grumpy even through the heavy oak door, and Evelyn smiled.

“Fresh sheets, ser.”

She heard him fumbling with the lock as she loosened the bonnet and let her dark auburn hair tumble, unbound, down her back.

“Maker’s breath, they’ve already sent new pillows and washed my cloak. I swear, if I find a chocolate on my pillow in the morning-”

And then the door swung open, and Cullen filled the doorway almost completely, his frame blotting out the candlelight from the chamber beyond.

“Evelyn? What are you-”

“I thought you might like this better than new sheets,” she whispered, placing her finger to his lips and making a quick glance down the hallway for any servants going about their nightly duties. The Teryn’s guard was dozing now, head resting on his chest.

“You know, I can’t say I’ve ever had a maid appear at my chamber door intending to seduce me,” Cullen murmured with a sly smile, standing aside to let Evelyn enter.

“Good,” she replied, walking towards his rumpled bed, “I’m the only one who should be seducing you.”

His bare, strong arms came around her waist, one of his callused hands scaling her ribs to cup a breast in his palm.

“So,” he whispered, his lips tantalizingly close to her ear, “what kind of seduction did you have in mind, my love?”

Swatting his hand away from where it was toying with the hem of her gown, Evelyn turned within his arms, letting his hands drop to curve around her rear.

“The quick kind, unfortunately. I promised Iris I would only be gone for a half hour, and my mother will be furious if she finds out,” she replied, craning her neck to kiss the corner of his lips.

His chuckle rumbled darkly in his chest. “Ah, so not only a maid, but a naughty one at that.”

As his lips traveled the expanse of her cheek and pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose, Cullen’s fingers spread across her lower back and down, hitching the plain white linen of her shift higher as his leg found its way between her own, and _up_.

He might as well have shot her. Evelyn’s knees shook as the coarse knap of his trousers met her nub and he shifted, palms pressing her higher up along his thigh and dragging her over-sensitive flesh against the hard muscles of his thigh. When her breasts meet his bare chest she hissed between closed teeth; the heat of his skin burned like a brazier, even through the thin linen of her nightgown. Letting her hands wander of the broad expanse of his shoulders, the column of his neck, her fingers twining in his golden hair, Evelyn pressed her lips to the shell of his ear.

“Twenty five minutes, ser.”

He turned his head, lips meeting her cheek and moving up to draw her earlobe between his teeth. She shivered at his damp breath caressing her sensitive skin as his teeth edged along the little dangle of flesh.

“Such a hurry,” he whispered, breath hot on her prickling skin, “will your mistress punish you for dereliction of duty?”

“She might. She can be quite harsh,” Evelyn replied, letting out a high, tight whine as his stubbled cheek grazed the soft skin where her neck joined her shoulder, tongue tracing the leap of her pounding pulse.

“And what would she do to you, my naughty serving girl, if she knew what you got up to in the pantry this afternoon?”

“She’d send me away, ser,” Evelyn whispered, letting feigned concern wash over her features. Arousal was gathering between her thighs, warm and slick, and tension coiled in her belly as he turned them both, her body still astride his thigh. The movement parted her, and she gasped; Cullen’s eyes widened as she ground herself against him and he murmured, “my naughty love, are you wearing your smalls?”

“No, ser.”

He growled hotly and one of his hands at her rear dropped to his side as the other pushed at her left shoulder, and Evelyn fell back against the billowing sheets. Before she could breathe, Cullen was on his knees at the foot of the bedframe, one large, callused hand closing around her ankle and he _pulled_ ¸ her nightgown catching on the bedding, slipping up to bunch beneath her breasts.

Lifting her head, Evelyn saw his golden eyes, turned opalescent shades of amber and copper in the dying embers of the fireplace, fasten hard and hawkish on the place where she ached so desperately for his touch. He licked his lower lip, teeth sliding across the lush expanse, and her toes curled in anticipation.

“My, my seductress,” he whispered, breath ghosting over the smooth skin inside her knee and higher as he hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, “you look _delicious_.”

“Cullen,” she moaned, hands twisting in the soft linen sheets, and her plea died on her lips as his tongue traced her slit, featherlight, sinuous and hot, parting her and dipping teasingly into her aching need.

His lips pressed against her inner thigh, and Evelyn could feel her own arousal against her skin as he nipped at her.

“Quiet,” he said, a laugh in his low whisper, “the Teryn is just down the hall. We can’t have him seeing the Commander of the Inquisition seducing a maid in the middle of the night, now can we?”

And he bit, and she jumped, pressing her fist into her mouth, teeth digging into the flesh of her knuckles as his lips closed around her, tongue thrusting before slipping up to press flat against her pearl; her back bowed from the mattress, breasts slipping from beneath the plain white linen of the servant’s gown, hardening in the night air of his room. With her free hand, Evelyn cupped one of her breasts, rolling her nipple between her thumb and forefinger, kneading and pulling, seeking to stoke the fire rising in her belly and climbing up the notches of her spine.

“Tell me what you want, my naughty serving girl,” Cullen murmured against her overheated flesh, one long finger pressing against her entrance, but not entering, as his other hand held her knee out and away, opening her to his eyes, his questing mouth and broad hands.

Evelyn twisted, seeking more. Pressing a hand against the headboard, she pushed, driving her further down the mattress and towards her lover.

“Please,” she gasped, “please please _please,_ ser, _please-_ ”

Without preamble, Cullen thrust one finger into her waiting passage, withdrawing it just long enough to add another thick digit, and Evelyn keened, teeth closing hard on her lower lip to stifle her cries. His lips pressed leisurely at the jointure of her thigh and body, at the top of her slit as his thumb passed over her nub in teasing circles.  

“I need you inside me, Cullen,” Evelyn whispered, “I need you, I need you, I…”

She was so close, and so frustrated that words seemed to fail her. All she could think about, all she wanted was his length inside her, filling her, letting her forget for the moment where they were, her mother’s expectations and disapproval, the falling cornice stone and Marie’s pale skin. The ridge of his cock’s crown, the warmth of his breathe streaming in the crook of her neck, the way light bloomed in his eyes as he kissed her when he came, _that_ was her home, and she felt starved for it.

Cullen crawled up the length of her body, muscles shifting beneath burnished golden skin as he stalked over her, predatory and undeniably strong and beautiful.

Hooking his thumbs under the pale linen crumpled beneath her arms, fingers curling over her shoulders, he lifted her up enough to pull the fabric over her head, baring her completely to the candles and the moonlight. 

“My beautiful Evelyn,” he whispered, their game apparently forgotten as he pressed a kiss to the thin, raised lines that raked across her ribcage, the marks of Corypheus’ dragon, “sleeping alone is a torment, and it’s only been one night.”

“We haven’t made love since the inn in Jader, before boarding the ship,” she murmured in reply, letting her fingertips tap against his ribs, squeeze his rear. Evelyn dragged her fingers down his back, pressing his muscled frame as close to her as possible, melding them into one imperfect, perfect line.

“Fuck me,” she said, lips moving against his, palms gripping his hips, nails digging into his muscles and he hissed, rising to his knees where he was crouched between her legs, stripping his loose trousers down his powerful thighs and over his shoulder to join her servant’s nightgown on the floor. 

And he covered her smaller frame with his own, his weight pressing her into the quilts and pillows and he was _there_ , within her, sliding deep and she gasped as he sank, until she could feel every inch of him filling her, his hipbones touching just above hers when he could go no further.

“Ten minutes,” he whispered into her ear, a powerful hand wrapping behind her neck to press her shoulders closer to him, and he growled, “bite down.”

He withdrew and slammed back, so hard that the bedframe squeaked and the mattress rocked, and Evelyn sank her teeth into the muscle of his shoulder to stifle the scream that boiled behind her lips as he did it again, and again, spearing her into the soft quilts, body rocking as sweat covered them, allowing for him to move smoother and faster. Sparks bloomed hard behind her closed eyelids and she shook, hands trembling against his broad shoulders as his honey dark voice filled her ears with sinfully delicious words.

“You’re so tight, my love, so wonderfully wet.” Another powerful thrust rocked her frame, and her hands flew up to grip the bedpost.

“Look at me,” he growled, hips pressing into hers, and Evelyn’s eyes snapped open as if by magic, to find Cullen’s boiling gaze boring down into hers as his cock filled her.

“Do you know what it does to me,” he gasped, sweat beading at his forehead, “seeing you play with your niece? Hold your nephew? Maker, Evelyn, I want you filled with me, and my babe growing within.”

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, licking at her throbbing pulse and sweat-slicked skin, “Maker help me, my love, but I want your belly swelling with our child, and no one can part us then, marry you off to some prince or Teryn. _Fuck_ ,” he hissed, hips stuttering as Evelyn wrapped her legs around his waist, “it drives me _mad_. Your breasts full, a son, a daughter-”

And she gasped, her walls clamping hard down on his length, throwing her head back as white spots arced behind her eyes.

“Yes, Cullen,” she moaned, “yes, _please_ -”

He slipped a hand between them, thumb pressing against her pearl and she came undone, trembling, shaking against his hard frame and he sucked in a breath, “ _Evelyn,_ ” before she felt the scalding, white-hot jet of his seed within her and she moaned, wishing against every logical voice, against her mother’s murmur in the recesses of her mind, for it to take root.

Cullen was panting, hot streams of air fluttering against the sweat-drenched locks at her brow, and he pushed the damp curls back to press a kiss to her forehead.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too,” Evelyn replied, slowly letting her legs drop away from his narrow hips and allowing him to roll off of her.

He stood and walked over to the bureau, pulling a towel off of the hook on the wall. Dipping it in the wash basin, he padded back over to her prone form on the mattress and, gently, tenderly, almost reverently, he ran the cool damp cloth up from her knees, her thighs, cleaning her flushed, thoroughly ravished flesh of their mingled arousal. Gathering her limp limbs to his chest, he scooted her to the edge of the bed and, pressing a kiss to her nose, her lips, he pulled the discarded gown over her head.

Evelyn felt heavy, sated, her limbs buzzing pleasantly with the afterglow of orgasm. It would be so easy, so lovely to just let her body go limp, to sink back into the bed and draw Cullen to her, to curl around  his naked frame as she had done almost every night for the six months previous, pressing lazy kisses to his nape, smoothing her hands over his sweat-slicked brow when the nightmares came.

But instead, he carried her over to the door, depositing her at the threshold.

“Back to your chamber, Lady Trevelyan,” he whispered against her lips, “we can’t have your mother knowing how thoroughly you’ve been despoiled by a Fereldan farmer’s son.”

She nipped at his lower lip. “I intend to be further despoiled, Commander. You aren’t the only one who wants your seed planted.”

He groaned and pushed the door open.

“Don’t say things like that, my love. Not if you intend on leaving.”

She grinned, but kissed his scarred lip in apology.

“I’m sorry. I will see you for breakfast. Maybe we can steal away for a little while longer.”

“One can only pray.”

 Slipping into the darkened hallway, she moved on none-too-steady legs past the dozing Teryn’s guard. From beyond she could hear Ricardis snoring like a druffalo.

The guards at the table in the dining hall still hadn’t moved, and tendrils of worry snaked up the length of Evelyn’s spine. Surely they weren’t _that_ drunk? It was then that her eyes noted the awkward way their heads lay on the table, the limp and unnatural stillness of their limbs. It wasn’t spilled wine soaking the linen tablecloth- no, too dark for that, too thick.

Blood.

Evelyn lifted the hem of Iris’s nightrail and ran.

“My daughter, Maker no, my sweet, dearest!”

Her mother’s voice, high and quavering with grief. Rounding the corner, Evelyn’s eyes burned at the sudden, feverish glare of torches. A crowd, including a few helmeted Templars, had gathered outside of the parlor leading to the girls’ bedrooms, and the most piteous wails rent the night air.

In Evelyn’s bedroom was Marie, panting high and tight in fear, and Tatiana, crying…Cosette, holding her son to her breast, blonde hair unbound and blue eyes blinking wide. From behind her legs peered Emilie, thumb in her mouth, and her husband, nightshirt hanging off of his shoulder. And Evelyn’s mother, fallen to the ornate Orlesian carpet, her face, still with a trace of youth’s luster, streaked with tears as she sobbed furiously into the shoulder of Evelyn’s father. His wizened hands were stroking her shaking back, her long, silvered hair. 

“Oh, no, no, not my Eve, my baby, my youngest, no…”

And it was only then that Evelyn saw, lying in her bed, the body so like hers in her purple silk nightgown. And where that golden hair had been, and the eyes that crinkled in laughter and the lips that kissed Wat the baker’s boy, was nothing but a ragged, bleeding stump. 

 

* * *

Comments, kudos, questions, constructive criticism always welcome! 

 


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

 

Many things seemed to happen at once. Cossette gasped, “ _Evelyn!”_ Tatiana sucked in a quavering breath, Marie swayed, and their mother fainted dead away, slipping from her husband’s arms to sprawl in a pile of limbs on the carpet.

“You,” Evelyn snapped, pointing at two guards, their armor glinting in the torchlight, faces obscured by steel visors, “carry my mother to the parlor. Father, lead the way. Don’t touch anything.”

Whirling around, she spied Jean standing awkwardly in the corner, knuckles white around a set of coral chantry beads. “Jean, mother’s probably got tincture of poppy stored away somewhere, correct?”

The older woman swallowed and nodded, once, twice, and Evelyn dipped her chin sharply.   
“Get it, go to the kitchen and make her a cup of tea. Put in a tablespoon or two; it will keep her calm until the morning.”

No one moved. Jean was just _gaping_ , mouth opening and closing soundlessly and Evelyn fought the entirely inappropriate smile that wanted to twist her lips; at present her mother’s lady looked suspiciously like a trout. A sniffle or two and Lisbeth Trevelyan’s labored breathing were the only noises in the crowded room.

Evelyn snarled, “ _Move_.”

And they did. The two guards positioned themselves on either side of Evelyn’s mother and, hoisting her limp frame up under her arms, dragged her from the room with her bare feet trailing on the carpet. Erich led the way, prattling nervously. Jean disappeared out into the hallway, calling for another servant to put the kettle on.

“Close the door behind you, Jean, and then send me two men you can trust,” snapped Evelyn, and her mother’s lady in waiting nodded without speaking, the tumblers sliding smoothly into place.

And then Evelyn was caught up in a bone-crushing hug, Tatiana’s shoulders shaking against her frame as she burst into near-hysterical tears.

“Where _were_ you?” she sobbed, pulling back to feverishly brush Evelyn’s hair away from her forehead, as if to confirm that it _was_ Evelyn standing before her, and not a phantasm or Fade-sent spirit.

“Iris and I switched clothes,” Evelyn murmured in reply, too tired and too shaken to make any attempt at subterfuge, “Unfortunately, it seems that her willingness to go along with my whim…well,” she trailed off, seeing Tatiana’s eyes still brimming with unshed tears, lower lip trembling.

She started crying again, and Evelyn carded her fingers through her sister’s dark blonde hair in as soothing a fashion as she knew.

“Shh, Tatiana. I’m alright. You are alright.”

“We thought you were _dead_ ,” she moaned in response, releasing Evelyn from her grip, “ _murdered_ in our own home! And three days before my wedding! Oh, Maker, the Teryn!” Panic shot across her face and, if it was possible, she grew even paler. “What if he calls off the engagement because of this? I’ll be _ruined_!”

Evelyn shushed her. “I will take care of things, I promise. Now, back to bed with all of you, please. Sleep in the guest quarters or together if you like, but please keep quiet. And,” she said, fixing each of her sisters and Cossette’s husband in turn with an even stare, “you must not speak of this to anyone. If we are to salvage the wedding, you _must_ do as I say.”

Tatiana nodded, hiccupping softly, before disappearing back into her own room, locking the door behind her. Cossette did the same, Antony still sleeping in her arms, husband and daughter trailing behind. Stooping, Evelyn took up a sheet from Iris’s pallet on the floor and, after draping it over the sad shape on the mattress, she began to knot the cheap linen together in a crude shroud.

“So _that_ is how you did it,” Marie whispered from her forgotten place by the mantle, where a fire still burned feverishly.

Evelyn sighed and let her shoulders droop. She suddenly felt utterly and completely exhausted. “Did what?”

“Became a leader, the Inquisitor. You led an army, killed dragons, destroyed an ancient mad magister. Rolf would tell me when the Kirkwall Chantry got word. I used to wonder how little Evelyn, who cursed us all when the Templars came to take her to the Chantry, who cried for a week when Cossette married…how did my littlest sister do all that?”

Not replying, Evelyn took the book of Chantry prayers from the nightstand, the red cover marred by her own childish scrawl and a sprig of Crystal Grace in snarled blue embroidery thread. She tucked it beneath Iris’s still warm hands.

“Much of it was luck, Marie. Luck and good council, good friends.”

“No,” her sister whispered from the doorway, a pale hand on the wooden frame and dark head shaking, “no. They helped, I am sure, but it had to be you, Evelyn. It had to be. You are so much stronger than I ever believed. I am sorry I wasn’t there to see it.”

The door closed behind her with only the quietest of sounds.

And only then, when Evelyn was alone in her childhood room, clad in the nightgown of the woman she was slowly burying in layers of clean, white linen, only then did she allow herself to cry.

In only a few minutes, Peter, Jean’s favorite servant, and Dietrich the steward arrived, rapping on the door. Dietrich’s voice trembled only a little.

“Lady Evelyn?”

Wiping away a few tears, Evelyn straightened and strode over to the door, opening it carefully. The torchlight slanted hard across Peter’s sweaty brow and deepened the lines of worry on Dietrich's forehead.

“Can I trust you,” she said, barring their entrance with her forearm, “to keep a secret for my family?”

Dietrich nodded sharply. “Aye, milady. Your family is mine, their secrets, mine. Kept more than a few for your parents in my day, and will keep them ‘til the grave.”

“Yes, Lady Evelyn,” whispered Peter tremulously, “your parents have done right by me, and we all know what Thedas owes the Inquisition.”

“Good,” she sighed in response, offering them only the barest details – that it was Iris wrapped up in a makeshift funeral shroud on the bed, that it was absolutely imperative to keep this a secret for now – while they gathered up the claret-stained sheets, the duvet, the body.

“Peter,” she said, bundling up the bloody fabric into a canvas bag, “take this out to the trash heap and burn it. Do not leave until you are satisfied that it will be nothing but ashes. Take pitch or lamp oil from the cellar if you need. Then come back, and speak of this to no one. Do you understand?”

He nodded his assent and loped off, skidding around the corner, arms full of crimson bedding. As the pounding of his feet faded, Evelyn turned back to where Iris’s body now lay beside the bed, Deitrich stitching up the hastily knotted seams.

“Did she have any family?” Evelyn murmured, kneeling beside the aged steward on the rug.

“No, meserre. Iris was a Kirkwall refugee, the only one of her family to make it out, as far as I know.”

“Ah. I had hoped…well, no matter.”

Deitrich’s shoulders sagged, even as he tied off the thread and bit it between age-worn teeth.

“I imagine you’ve lost many in the Inquisition’s armies, Lady Evelyn. A lot of letters to a lot of families.”

“Yes. Hundreds. Cullen writes most of them, but I try to help when I can. Corypheus spared no one.”

“Should I wake your man? He will want to know what has happened.”

“No,” she whispered, feather-light, and again, firmer, “no. Let him sleep for now. The worry will still be there in the morning.”

“As you say.”

They hoisted the bundle over their shoulders, bending under the weight of something so heavy for a person so slight, and began down the hall. Jean met them on the way, bearing a candle and news that Evelyn’s father had managed to swear the guards to secrecy with the promise of coin and an invocation of the Inquisition’s fabled spy network and a certain “Sister Nightingale.” She then led them down several hallways, each progressively less lit, until they arrived at an unused root cellar.

“We’ll have to keep them here for now,” Jean murmured, a “Maker forgive us,” passing under her breath as she eased open the creaking door.

And that was where Evelyn and Deitrich lay Iris, pressed between the two guards from the dining hall, their throats slit and raw with clotted blood. Jean pulled out a few sticks of incense from an apron pocket, and Evelyn cast her mind back to those cold nights in the chantry chapel, knees tingling with white-hot pricks from too long spent kneeling on the frigid stone. After a heartbeat, then two, she whispered into the fecund, damp darkness of the cellar,

_“O Maker, hear my cry:_

_Seat me by Your side in death,_

_Make me one within Your glory,_

_And let the world once more see Your favor._

_For You are the fire at the heart of the world,_

_And comfort is only Yours to give.”_

“A poor funeral rite,” Jean murmured as they reentered the hallway, “begging your pardon, Lady Evelyn.”

“They’ll have a true funeral, Jean,” the Inquisitor replied, “a pyre so big that it will herald their return to the Maker’s side. But to have it now? To publicize throughout the city that three people were murdered in our home, when the Teryn slept in the guest wing? We’d be lucky to salvage any engagement for Tatiana, to say nothing of her marriage to Carl.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“I know.”

Shutting the cellar door, Evelyn tried to ignore the hot sting of tears behind her lids and made her way towards the parlor.

Evelyn’s mother lay upon the battered couch, draped in blankets, hands shaking as she held the teacup in a vice grip. When Evelyn entered, easing the door shut gently behind her, Lisbeth set the cup down, the amber liquid sloshing off the saucer and onto the coffee table.  

“Evelyn, you- we thought- _why_ was Iris wearing your gown?”

What little color had seeped back into her mother’s cheeks fled, and her silvered head fell back against the arm of the settee with a “whumph.”

“Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

“Good,” Evelyn murmured, sitting at the edge of the couch and tucking the blankets back around her mother’s feet, “because we have bigger problems.”

“Maker help us,” Lisbeth groaned, hand draped across her eyes, “what do we tell Ricardis? He’s sleeping now, but-”

“Nothing, mother. We’ve placed the bodies in one of the old store rooms and Papa’s sworn those who know to secrecy.”

“But, Evelyn-”

“Whoever killed Iris was after me, and the longer he or she thinks that they’ve succeeded, the more time we have to find the culprit. Now, shh,” she murmured, gingerly holding the tea to her mother’s trembling lips, “drink this. It has a tincture of poppy to help you sleep. I will take care of things. You just focus on keeping up appearances.”

Evelyn’s mother managed a small smile, eyelids drooping as the drug took its effects.

“Dearest daughter, keeping up appearances is my specialty.”

Her eyes closed and her breathing evened, and Evelyn set the teacup down, walking first across the room to lock the door and then to one of the worn armchairs by the fire. A few hours still to daylight, she thought, pulling up a footrest and slipping into a fitful sleep.

At dawn, leaving her mother asleep on the couch, Evelyn slipped out of the parlor and into the hallway, where the first sharp rays of the morning sun were just beginning to warm the marble stones. The silence shattered.

“What in the name of Andraste’s flaming pyre did Jean mean, ‘someone tried to kill Evelyn’?!” Cullen roared, stalking around the corner, and Evelyn clamped a hand over his mouth as quickly as possible.

“Quiet!”

 He glowered, dark gold eyes roiling, but nodded, lips working soundlessly against the skin of her palm. Taking his hand, Evelyn drew him out the open doorway, past the colonnade and towards the fountain in the center of the courtyard, where the splashing water would muffle their whispered conversation. The light fragrance of the citrus trees, the clear clarion songs of the morning birds seemed so incongruous with the events of the previous night, and not for the first time Evelyn wondered if this really was her life, or some fever dream of the Maker.

“Someone tried to murder you?” Cullen hissed as she sat on the curving marble bench, shaking his curly head as she beckoned for him to join her. Too wound up to sit, she supposed.

“Yes, but they killed Iris instead, thinking she was me. Two guards in the hall, too. But you _have_ to be quiet, Cullen. The Teryn may be nursing a hangover the size of a Qunari dreadnought, but even he might hear you bellowing.”

“I do _not_ bellow,” he grumbled, but assented to sit beside her on the bench.

She kissed his shoulder in apology, letting her head rest against his solid warmth, “I know, my love. I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

Evelyn flinched at the tender hurt in his voice.

“There was nothing to be done, Cullen. I wanted to let you rest. Someone being murdered in our home three days before Tatiana’s wedding would be incredibly damaging, you must understand…”

“I do,” he murmured, hand resting atop hers and fingers slotting between her own, “but I don’t like it.”

He lips whispered over her temple. “So, what now?”

“Now, we get breakfast. Cook made Fereldan honey rolls for you. After Ricardis leaves, we’ll begin trying to figure this out.”

Cullen managed a half smile, the corners of his lips quirking up. “Well, even if your mother isn’t too fond of me, at least the cook seems to be.”    

\----

After the Teryn left, holding his head and a grimace semi-permanently pasted on his features despite liberal infusions of Antivan coffee and a snifter of brandy, a small cadre gathered in the dining room.

“Who would want you dead?”

Evelyn huffed out a laugh despite herself, and Cosette’s husband’s frown deepened.

“Who wouldn’t? Leftover Venatori, the Qunari angry about their sunken dreadnought, Red Templars, people angry about my opinions on mages…”

“You make friends everywhere you go, don’t you?” her brother-in-law laughed, but without humor, and Evelyn pressed her fingertips against Cullen’s clenching fist beside her beneath the tabletop. Shooting a sidelong glance, she met his eyes, and the twitching muscle in his jaw relaxed. 

“Martin,” Cossette hissed, shooting an apologetic glance, “hold your tongue. The Inquisition saved us!”

“And her presence here means a murderer was in the room next to where we slept, where our children slept!”

“Then we’ll leave,” Cullen growled, chair screeching on the marble floor, “we’ll charter a ship today, and be on our way back to Ferelden.”

Evelyn’s mother gasped. “Maker, no! Can you imagine the scandal it would cause, you leaving before the wedding? That’s just not possible.”

Martin stalked out, muttering about finding the children and taking them for a walk, Cossette trailing behind, mouthing apologies through painted lips before shutting the door behind them.

Evelyn nodded, head inclining towards her mother. “Indeed. For all we know, the killer still thinks he was successful. The longer he believes so, the more time we have to discern his identity and take care of this quietly. Mama, do you and Tatiana have errands to run?”

Lisbeth smiled despite herself. “Yes! We have to pick up the dress, oh, and confirm the flower arrangements. Oh, I almost forgot about the thank you cards…Maker…”

“Good. Take Tatiana and Marie into the city. With the house empty, Cullen and I will search for clues.”    

She stood, grabbing Cullen’s hand and they exited back into the courtyard.

“I wish Leliana was here,” she murmured, “secrets were never my forte.”

He managed a smile, running a hand through her unbound hair, which glowed like polished mahogany in the rising morning sun.

“Yes, both you and I tend to favor a forward approach.”

She turned into the palm which cupped her cheek, kissing the sword-calloused skin there.

“Give me a breach and a sword and I’ll take on the world.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Give me you, and I’ll take on this world and the next. I’d bust down the doors of the Golden City to bring you back.”

“Blasphemer.”

“Only for you.” 

Later, they sat again in the courtyard, this time at a small table beneath a blue awning to shade them from the afternoon sun. Before them lay a sketch of the house, and several blank pieces of paper.

“Who else was in the house?” Cullen asked, his tawny eyes scanning the blueprint as he marked out possible routes for the killer to escape without notice.

“Other than family? The Teryn, his guard, four guards, two of whom were murdered, Jean, Dietrich, Peter, Iris…the cook goes home to her family at night, and doesn’t have keys. The same is true for cleaning staff. The estate isn’t large enough to require more than that.”

“And the gates are locked at night?”

“Yes. After Carl left, they were all locked by Dietrich, and when Cook arrived this morning they were still locked.”

“So whoever it was either has keys, or…what? Scaled the walls?”

“Without being seen? We’re outside the city, but I’m not sure we’re _that_ far. And there’s no scuffs on the walls, no ladder marks in the dirt.”

“And even if they scaled the walls, how did they get into your locked room? The lock’s not broken or picked.”

“Maybe Iris let them in, thinking it was me?”

“With no struggle, no sound?”

Evelyn sucked absentmindedly on the tip of her pen before shaking her head, “No. They had to have keys. And both guards had theirs when we found them.”

“So whoever it is has their own set.”

Cullen reached for her hand.

“What if the reason we haven’t found any signs of them entering or leaving last night is because they haven’t?”

“Lady Evelyn!”   

The steward rushed across the courtyard, his face paler than the marble colonnade.

“On the table -” he panted, wheezing with age, “in the dining room – I found – look!”

In Deitrich’s trembling hands was a severed head, cornsilk hair clumped together with clotted blood, blue eyes unseeing. But most disturbing was the parchment affixed to her pale forehead, which warned in scrawled text: “next time, it will be you.”


End file.
